Sanguine
by HidingintheInkwell
Summary: The first time it happened it was an accident. The second time it happened, he was heartbroken, curled up in the corner of his bathroom gripping the broken shard of mirror in a shaking fist, thin lines of red smeared across a surface that reflected back at him his reddened tear-stained face.


_Sanguine: noun: A blood-red color_

 _A/N: I apologize to anyone reading this on their phone, my paragraphs vary in length and it's done this way on purpose so I can't change them, but I hope you still enjoy!_

The first time it happened was an accident. He'd been playing outside, climbing the trees near his mother's rose gardens when the branch he'd been using to support himself proved dead, collapsing beneath his even then limited weight and sending him crashing into the thorny bundles beneath him. "Missed his vitals, luckily," the doctors told his parents later as he waited for the all clear to go home, poking gingerly at the white bandage on his side until his mother slapped the prodding finger away. He wasn't allowed out of the house for a week after that and when he was, daffodils and mums had replaced the rosebushes, and the branches within arm's reach had been hacked to the stump. He was seven years old.

The second time it happened, he was heartbroken, curled up in the corner of his bathroom gripping the broken shard of mirror in a shaking fist, thin lines of red smeared across a surface that reflected back at him his reddened tear-stained face. He'd run away from school, and for that he knew he'd catch hell from his dad for it, but he'd had to get away. They'd found out. The football team had caught him giving the captain of the baseball team head out behind the bleachers before gym class, spit smeared across his cheeks and lips puffy and red. They'd dragged him out, his pants unzipped because he'd been promised one in exchange and tossed him out into the middle of the field. He'd expected the guy he'd been blowing to stand up for him and tell them to back off, but as he lay there he could only watch between pairs of legs as the older boy scrambled to his feet and tucked his still hard dick back into his pants, making a break for it with just barely enough time to grab his backpack. He didn't even spare him a glance. So now he sat there, staring into his shaking reflection, at the wide eyes and puffy cheeks still striped with crusted white from earlier. His reflection stared back as the shard was pressed into his arm, staring up at him with what he could only recognize as pity until the well of blood mingled with that from his fingers and obscured the silvery surface. Echoes of "faggot" and "cockslut" ringing above the din of his choked sobs. He was fourteen.

The third time it happened he was stumbling into his house through the back door so he wouldn't wake his parents even as everything around him swam across his vision. He had to take a moment to prop himself in the doorway to the hall bathroom, clutching at his stomach to keep from heaving as the events of the last couple hours. They'd gone out. He hadn't wanted to but they'd dragged him along anyway, insisting the party was the last big hurrah before summer took them into the real world. It was being hosted by the captain of the basketball team because his parents were out of town and he had the key to the biggest liquor cabinet outside of a proper liquor store. He'd promised he wasn't going to drink, didn't want what he knew it would do to his system, wanted to be the one to make sure his friends would get home safe. One of his buddies had brought him a can of pepsi, promising he hadn't done anything but open it. Not even three sips in and he knew he'd been lied to. Everything was tipping on its axis, sliding across the room as though the world had been dipped in oil. They'd appeared in front of him, trying to pull him into the thick of the party, toward the stairs. He tried to fight back, but his limbs refused to work. They were nearly there when someone pushed between him and his urging "buddies", yelling at them if the way her face contorted wasn't just a figment of the roofie they'd slipped in his drink. He couldn't make out her words though, the rushing in his head was growing too intense. He swayed on his feet and his stomach rolled violently. Apparently finished yelling at his "friend", she turned to him, concern written across all three faces as they tipped and spun before his eyes. He tried to say something, ask for help or tell her what had happened but his mouth was full of calk, locking his teeth even as his roiling stomach threatened to push them out of his mouth and all over the middle her's revealing pink blouse. He knew her. Her name was Eliza, he'd had a thing for her since sophomore year. She was sweet, and sunny, and nice to everyone, but he hadn't even known she knew he existed. Suddenly he found himself with soft, slim arms wrapped around him and his nose filled with the scent of her perfume: something light and florally with a bit of fruit mixed in, not overly expensive and cloying like most girls, but not the cheep two dollar stuff one bought from a dollar store. Warm breath ghosted his ear as she spoke something to him, but it only came across as static to his overtaxed senses. He felt her tugging at his sleeves, urging him to follow her as they started for the front door, but as he followed on unsteady feet there was a shove to his back that sent him crashing into Eliza, sending them both to the hardwood floor. She ended under him, and as he tried to catch himself one hand came down hard on her left breast. They both froze, a look of shock painted across her face before it morphed into one of disgust and outrage. Small hands shoved at his chest, trying to push him off. He tried to comply, but his body wouldn't obey. He felt heavy, frozen, like a marble statue. _Drugged Perversion_. He was brought semi back to his senses by a sharp slap to his cheek. Her mouth was moving again, face contorted like it was when she was yelling at his "friend". He moved to comply, face burning, but as he shifted his stomach gave one more heave before emptying itself across her pale pink shirt. Even though it was mostly bile and pepsi, the last substantial thing he'd fed it being that waffle at breakfast, the act itself was enough to send mortification coursing through his body, burning off the effects of the drug just enough to free his body from the rigor mortis it had been paralyzed by. He shoved himself to his feet, stuttering out apologies an offering a hand to help her to her feet only to have it slapped away with accompanying words of content. Face burning with shame and blood coursing through his ears, he turned and ran as fast as his wobbling legs would carry him, falling so often he'd lost count by the time he all but slammed into his back door, knees of his jeans torn and dirty, palms stinging with road rash. He stumbled his way up the stairs, tripping once or twice and striking his knees hard against the steps and hissing every time there was a sound audible enough to stand any chance of his parents hearing. He barely got his bathroom door closed and his toilet lid up before his stomach was heaving again, emptying it's nonexistent contents into the porcelain bowl as it fought desperately to purge the invasive drugs from his system. Even when there was nothing left to give he still curled himself over the toilet, stomach sore and aching from its workout and tears of embarrassment streaming down his face. Pushing himself away, his back collided with the side of his tub, sending his razor clattering to the tile beside him. It was a cheap yellow one, the kind you can buy a six pack of for five bucks. Cheap also meant easily broken. Fishing in his pocket for a coin, he wedged it in between the blades, applying pressure until the plastic yielded, popping open and sending the pieces tumbling to the bathmat. Reaching down with shaking fingers- though shaking from what he couldn't be sure- he picked up one of the slender blades, bouncing it a few times in his palm before gripping the edge of his mud and puke stained shirt, pulling it up to reveal the toned, pale flesh underneath. Biting his trembling lip and tasting the mixture of salt and iron, he tightened his grip on the miniature blade and dug it into his stomach, watching as the blood immediately welled up and ran only to be quickly absorbed by his waistband. He knew he should have felt something, but there was only numbness. It was only later, after he'd bandaged himself and was laying out on top of his covers and staring dry-eyed at the glow stars his sister had put there when she was 8 did he realize; he'd left his diploma at the school. He was eighteen.

The fourth time it happened, he'd just witnessed the murder of the best woman he'd ever had the pleasure to know, and missed the birth of the best thing that would ever come of his life. It felt like hours before anyone could show up. By the time they did, her blood was dried brown on his hands and her body stiff where he'd laid it out on the ground, covering her best he could out of respect with an old moth eaten blanket he'd found in a broom closet. It reeked of mold and age, but he couldn't just leave her there in the chair, head tipped back as her eyes stared up at the roof sightlessly. Soullessly. He'd been checked out by the EMTs when they were finally able to find them, accepting the offered sweatshirt so he wouldn't have to go to the hospital to see his wife in a bloodstained shirt. He'd cleaned his hands and washed his face in the lobby bathroom before making his way to the nursery, spotting the tiny pink bundle that slept on peacefully in her plastic crib, blissfully unaware of the events that would forever cast a shadow over the day of her birth, a shadow that her father would spend years making sure never marred her sunny disposition. He kissed his wife and held his baby girl and then excused himself, saying he needed to go home and take a proper shower and change his clothes but he'd come back. He caught a cab home, unlocked his front door and made it as far as the kitchen before the dam broke and the counter became the only thing holding him up. He sobbed so hard he couldn't breathe, but no tears fell. He was beyond that. This was the kind of sorrow born of complete heartbreak, anger. If they'd just gotten there a bit sooner she'd still be alive. If he'd just done _something_. He was nearly bent double, fingers white with the strength he was gripping the edge of the counter. A broken sound left his throat and for a second he managed to snap himself out of it, unable to recognize the sound he'd just made. Hadn't even thought it possible for a human being to make such a sound. All too soon though the wave was crashing over him again, sending him spinning toward the sink, hand grasping until it landed around a handle. Yanking the blade from the knife block, he held it to his throat, pressing until he felt the telltale sting and warm trickle. He was about to draw when he caught sight of himself reflected in the kitchen window, view beyond as dark as his mood. The eyes that met his were wide and manic, lips chapped and bloody and parted as his chest heaved air between them. He looked like a man on the very brink. Turning from the sight that made his gut clench and twist painfully, his gaze caught and held on a small picture held to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cartoonish frog. An ultrasound of a womb, with a tiny little alien looking creature seeming to wave hello from the grainy black and white photo. The knife slipped from his hand, clattering to the tiled floor, but his attention was locked on that tiny photograph, the words _It's a Girl!_ written at the top, half obscured by the magnet. He stepped over the fallen knife as he walked over to the picture, pulling it free and touching a trembling finger to that tiny hand, almost as though it could touch him back, grasping him tight and never letting go. That broken sound escaped his throat again, but this time his face was wet as he slid to the floor, foot kicking the kitchen knife across the room as he fell. His neck still bled, spreading a fresh stain on his ruined shirt. No amount of hydrogen peroxide or baking soda or whatever the hell one was supposed to use on bloodstains was going to fix it. He was twenty-three.

The fifth time it happened, it was at the end of the worst week of his life. The one person on this godforsaken island-besides his daughter-who made it bearable to live here had nearly been killed for the umpteenth time, and now his ex-wife was threatening to take his baby away from him again. The case was supposed to be simple. Someone selling drugs off Oahu that led to a junkie ODing, only problem was the "junkie" had been an undercover cop. They'd been called in to investigate, but it was three days before they got a solid lead. A kid had found a packet of something while flying a kite on the beach, turned it over to his parents who then called HPD. The drugs had traced back to a dealer with ties to a triad called the Jade Shoguns, a notoriously ruthless drug cartel. While the cousins had gone to track down the dealer, a tip had come in about something going down off Diamond Head, so he'd taken his place in the passenger seat of his own car and they'd sped off, leaving a message with their resident fem fatale to meet them out there when they finished with the dealer. They'd arrived just in time for the show. There was indeed a suspicious looking boat unloading bundles of what could possibly contain laced PCP, only problem was that the people doing the unloading were not the Jade Shogun. They weren't even Chinese. They parked, dawned their vests, and crept closer, trying to get a better look. That's when the shit hit the fan. The dock workers were just unloading the latest haul from the ship when the one closest to their hiding place suddenly jerked, a shower of blood blossoming from his chest as he collapsed. From there it only got worse. Gunshots rang out, and one by one the workers went down, the dock quickly becoming slick with their blood. The brunet next to him stuck his head out, gun at the ready. Before he could blink or grab his arm, the other man was up and running, stepping more sure footed than anyone had a right to when running through a bloodbath as he dodged bullets, firing his own in return at the hidden triad members. He watched the taller man, still sheltered behind the stack of crates, popping up every so often like a whack-a-mole to take a shot when his partner was distracted, but mostly his gaze remained fixed on his dark haired friend, the way his face was set in what was often jokingly called his "game face", the fierce determination in his eyes as he sidestepped a body, not even sparing it a glance as he kept his gun at the ready and made his way closer and closer to the warehouse. And that's when it went wrong. One of the triad members had caught on that there was a second man, and had taken a shot directly at where he was hiding. The shot went wide, missing his actual position by several feet, but the sound of lead ripping through wood was still enough to draw the ex-SEAL's attention. Enough to distract him long enough for someone to get a lucky shot, and he could only watch as his partner's look of worry changed to one of surprise as his feet slid in the red beneath them and he went down hard enough to make his head bounce off the wood. It was like watching someone on some kind of morbid waterslide the way the blood splashed up around him. He didn't move. Tearing his eyes away from the fallen brunet, he turned his attention back to the last remaining triad members. There were only two, the others having fled or been taken out by the ex-SEAL. Feeling a scream trying to rip its way out of his throat, he was relieved to hear the sound of sirens breaking through the rushing in his ears. Popping up long enough to get another shot off, pleased to see one of the remaining Jade Shogun clutching his arm as he fell. Before much longer, the place was surrounded, the last remaining member in cuffs, and he was running for his fallen partner, heart in his throat as he slid the last foot and a half on his knees. Another pair of pants ruined, but that had become a fact of life since taking this man on as his partner. Hands shaking with more than just adrenaline, he sent up a prayer to deities he didn't believe in as he examined the all too still man. There was so much blood; he couldn't tell whose was whose. He didn't realize he'd stopped breathing until his fingers pressed into a carotid artery and felt a steady pulse beneath the skin. He was alive… he must have been knocked out when his head decided to play basketball to the dock, but he was alive. But there was so much blood…. He called out for the medic, voice almost too scratchy to make it out of his throat, but someone must have heard him because a moment later he was being pushed out of the way and the brunet was being checked over and lifted to a stretcher and he was _alive_ … he wanted to accompany them to the hospital, to be there when those green eyes blinked open, but even as he was making his way for the ambulance he was being pulled in the opposite direction, being told to go home and clean up before someone mistakened him for the one injured, and he'd be called when the brunet woke up. And before his brain had even caught up, he was in his car and halfway to his shitty little apartment. He was still wearing his vest. He counted himself lucky that no one was around by the time he pulled up in front of the complex. He could feel the blood congealing on his skin and was sure he looked like _he_ was the one who'd just committed a crime. He stumbled through his door, adrenaline that had been keeping him going since they'd gotten the call depleted now and leaving him shaky and exhausted. He made his way into his tiny bathroom, shedding clothes behind him as he walked. It wasn't his weekend with his Monkey so he didn't have to worry about mentally scarring the twelve year old. Cranking the shower to as hot as the ancient pipes could handle-admittedly not much, he'd taken more cold than hot showers since he moved there-he stepped beneath the meager spray, letting it loosen up dried blood to be scrubbed away later. The water felt wonderful on his tense muscles and he felt himself starting to melt, relaxing for the first time since that morning. Until he opened his eyes in order to locate his body wash and saw the red pooling at his feet before circling down the drain, and just like that he was back on that dock next to his wounded partner, only this time the brunet wasn't breathing, there was no pulse beneath his fingertips, and this time, all the blood belonged to him. He couldn't breathe, pressing himself to the cold tile wall in a desperate attempt to regain control, but there was just so much blood and even though he kept telling himself his reckless, dark haired partner was going to be fine, it was just a bump on the head, he couldn't stop his mind from conjuring up all those other times there had been blood, too much blood. Desperately trying to bite back the rising panic, his hand fumbled out through the shower curtain, searching for what he'd just used that morning. Fingers scrambled blindly as he knocked odds and ends into the sink or onto the floor, not really concerned about what he could clean up later until his fingers finally closed around a smooth wooden handle. His father had given him the straight razor when he'd graduated the Academy, saying if he was out there protecting the rest of them, then the least he could do was shave like a proper man. He'd laughed off the joke, not really thinking a lot about it, but he'd kept it and used it more often than not. This time though, it wasn't a shave he was going to use it for. Flipping it open with a practiced ease, he slid to the bottom of the shower, cold tile jolting his system like it was desperately trying to get him to rethink his actions, but he paid it no mind. Instead he didn't even hesitate, dragging the well sharpened blade across his inner thigh, hissing as the pain lanced through him and his blood joined the rest as it disappeared down the drain. He kept going, cut after cut, until he was nearly covered hip to knee, and he would have kept going, starting on the other leg next when he was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. It was their Fem Fatale. He was awake, and he was asking for him. Dropping the blade into the bottom of the tub, not caring about the damage and barely remembering to turn off the water, he was dressed and back out the door before the faucet even stopped dripping. He was thirty-five.

The sixth time it happened, it was over. They'd gotten him back in one piece, but at what cost? Wo Fat was dead, and he couldn't find it in him to be remorseful. Not after everything that psychopath had put them through, not when the memory of the one man who made him feel whole _clinging_ to him out of desperation and asking about a father who'd been dead for years was still right there at the front of his mind. God, the look on his face had been so…. _Hopeful_. Like even though he knew the truth, a part of him had desperately hoped the world the drugs had made for him had been real. On the chopper back he'd found himself with the brunet's head on his shoulder, the taller man practically curled into him and looking so small and _frail_ -a word he never thought he'd associate with this ex Navy SEAL-that his heart broke, and just kept breaking when he realized there was nothing he could do to help. Ambulances had met them at the helipad when they landed, whisking away the brunet and leaving the rest of them behind with promises of updates and "he'll be okay"s, promises that rang in his ears as he loaded himself into his car, ignoring the questioning calls and concerned looks from the cousins, and drove himself back to his apartment. When his senses finally returned to him, he was standing in his bathroom, staring at the running water from the showerhead. _Waterboarding._ Wo Fat had waterboarded him for information. There had been water all over the floor of that tiny room, tinged in shades of pink and red as Wo Fat's blood swirled like some kind of macabre watercolor. Both brunets had lay there unmoving, and he'd felt like the air had been sucked from the room. Turning from the shower, he found himself staring back from the mirror, his eyes empty, dull, resigned. His partner had cried; he'd clung to him and sobbed like his world had crumbled around him, and all he'd been able to do was hold him and murmur reassurances even as his own heart shriveled inside his chest, screaming in pain behind it's cage of bone and muscle. He didn't recognize the man in the mirror watching him, didn't think he had for a very long time. Not since he was thirteen and getting ready for school, gelling his hair so he'd look good for his date under the bleachers, but not too much gel. Unable to maintain his staring contest with the empty shell on the other side of the glass, pale eyes dropped to the sink, taking in the smooth porcelain and stainless steel before landing on the tactical knife, a birthday present from the neanderthal he called a partner accompanied by a joke that one should always have a good reliable knife on their person. Memories of that birthday party tried to quirk up the corners of his mouth, but his muscles were too heavy. Fingering the cool metal handle, he glanced back at the running water, sure it was warm by now, before dropping hands to his belt. He stripped slowly, methodically, taking the time to neatly fold his clothes and letting them down on the toilet lid, emptying the contents of his pockets and leaving them on top. When he was done, he picked up the knife and stepped into the shower. Water pressure here was a lot better, the sound like the hail storms they used to get on occasion back in Jersey. It drowned out everything; the silence of his house, passing traffic noise, the thoughts in his head. He stood there for a little while, just letting the heat and constant pounding wash over him, hammering the kinks out of his muscles. Letting his head hang as the water ran through his hair and dripped down his face. Monkey would be fine, she had people to love her and take care of her. He wasn't worried about the others either, they had each other and they had their significant others. Then his thoughts turned to his partner. That wonderful, crazy, _reckless_ neanderthal that had somehow managed to worm his way into his life, his home, his _heart_. The shriveled, broken organ gave another pitiful whimper, this time managing to slip past his clenched lips only to be drowned out by the pounding water. He fingered the blade, applying enough pressure to the quick release to send it springing open, bouncing back the spray that had found a new obstruction in its path to the drain. A familiar voice in the back of his head spoke up at the sight of the sharp metal, urging him to think about what he was considering. He told it to shut up. He was done thinking. Thinking is what had gotten him into more messes than he could count. Everything would be better if he could just _stop_ thinking. He sank to the bottom of the tub, body folding in on himself until he was laying back, curled up as best he could and grateful for once of his shorter than average stature. Shifting to his back, he closed his eyes against the needle sharp spray and took a deep breath. There was a sharp bite against his wrist, but he had no recollection of having moved his hands. Squinting against the spray, he looked down at his hands, a thin line of red ran diagonal across his wrist, already being washed away. He felt detached, watching hands that looked like his, but didn't feel like his raised the water spotted blade, drawing it across his wrist; longer, deeper, creating an X with the previous one. Blood welled up, thick and dark crimson, nearly black in the shadow of the curtain and the orange tinted lighting. He watched in detached fascination as it ran down his arm, down his chest, spreading out pale pink until it disappeared down the drain. Switching hands, he did it again, deep red X across the inside of his wrist running like mini rivers. Rivers to deluges as he cut again, bisecting the X's until his arms, his stomach, his thighs were painted with a thin curtain of red, like a veil was being pulled from under his skin to drape over him. His vision wavered, knife slipping from his hand to clatter down by his foot. His head was pounding, like someone was running through it, slamming open the doors of his memory like a madman looking for something he'd lost. He was seven years old, picking at the scabs just under his rib cage where he told his classmates he'd been mauled by a rogue bear instead of the rogue rose bushes that had been the real culprit. He was thirteen, sobbing his eyes out into his pillow because his first time being who his body told him he really was had left him bruised and mentally broken with choked out promises to take on the persona of the perfect lady's man so that what happened under the bleachers would never be remembered. He was eighteen and empty, the drugs he'd been slipped by people he'd considered his friends working their way out of his system while he wondered what exactly their plan had been; they'd been taking him toward the stairs, and he could only shudder to think what their motive could have been. He was twenty-three, the thought of his newborn baby girl the only thing keeping him anchored to the real world with the hope that she'd grow up to live up to her namesake and be a strong, independent woman capable of taking care of herself. The running was getting closer, pounding drowning out that of the water. Something was wrong. The pounding sounded like it was right outside instead of in his head where it belonged. Everything was dark and fuzzy, a warm numbness was spreading through him as he watched the red flowing, aided by the water that was growing steadily colder. The pounding had gone silent. A part of him missed it in the hollow absence of any noise that followed. His head tipped back, eyes slipping closed, until the bathroom door exploded, flying open to collide with the linen closet door, the sound of someone's name, his name. His head lolled toward the noise and he fought to keep his eyes open long enough to see who'd just busted through his door, but when his eyes finally focused, his brain couldn't comprehend it. His partner stood there, like some kind of dark haired avenging angel. His chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon, but the look on his face…. The look was all wrong. It wasn't that fierce determination that made him so beautiful, the look on his face was open, horrified, scared. That couldn't be right. The Dark Angel was never scared. Lips moved, but there was no sound, like the two of them were stuck in a vacuum. Wide green eyes met his, and then the brunet was running, but everything was slow, and his eyelids were heavy. As they drifted shut and the numbness dragged him under, a wretched, heartbroken scream reached his ears: "Danny!" He was thirty-six.

5050505050505050

He felt like he was floating. Wherever he was it was warm and soft and smelled like home and comfort. He'd never held out hope for an afterlife, but if some deity had decided to take pity on his poor broken soul, he wasn't complaining. He shifted, the soft surface under him shifting with him, but the warm weight cradling him didn't. He went to roll onto his back, only to find himself rolling instead into a warm, well muscled and _very_ naked chest. He froze, eyes blinking open but taking far too long to focus. He was in a room, but not his room. He recognized it though, crashing on the owner's couch gave him more insight than he'd care to admit into the life and rooms of one Steve McGarrett's house. Eyes roamed the part of the room within his field of vision just to make sure before focusing on the strong arms he found himself cradled in. He knew those arms, had seen those arms in action so many times, had been held in those arms after every tough case. Those arms were holding him securely bug gently, wrapped one across his shoulders one around his waist, hand resting almost protectively over the pale scars marching across his stomach. What was this… was he dreaming? Was he dead and this was something cooked up for him? Or was he really in a coma in the hospital while they waited for him to wake up so he could be put on suicide watch? There was one way to find out… careful not to disturb the man behind him, he slowly detangled one of his arms from the blanket, lifting it into his field of vision to see the dark pink adhesive wrap-bought for Grace after she'd sprained her ankle cheerleading-wrapped around his wrist. "Why'd you do it, Danno," the sleep thick and pain heavy voice in his ear made him jolt, hot breath ghosting over his ear sending a shiver down his spine that he tried to suppress. He swallowed hard. "Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level and casual. The grip around him tightened almost painfully for the briefest moment, pulling him closer to that solid chest, a chest he'd dreamed about on more than one occasion. "Don't play this game, Danno. Please…" the voice in his ear was cracked with pain, sending a pit of guilt the size of a baseball into the pit of his stomach. That baseball turned into a coconut when the brunet spoke again. "Are things _that bad_ , Danno? Do you hate it here that much, do you hate _me_ enough to want to kill yourself?" Danny stopped breathing, brain working overtime to fight off the lingering fog in order to process Steve's words through the pain he'd heard in that tone. Pushing against the mattress and the numbness he still felt weighing down his limbs, he turned until he could meet those beautiful green eyes, normally so bright but this time clouded with unshed tears and pain. "Babe, no," he whispered, hand coming up to cradle the side of his partner's face. "No, no… I love you, babe, and as much as I hate to admit it, I'm starting to love this pineapple-infested hellhole too. And I'm starting to love it because you, and Gracie, and the team, you _make_ me want to love it." He leaned forward till their foreheads touched. "When I saw you just lying there… there was so much blood mixing with that water and I just… I couldn't lose you, Steven. And then you were alive, and we were flying back to meet the ambulance, and then I realized that I couldn't do this anymore, the constant worry… but babe, how could you think I hate you?" Steve's eyes had fallen closed while he talked, but they opened again, swallowing him in their depths. "Because I'm a reckless, impatient, egotistical neanderthal with control issues. I wouldn't blame you if my stupidity drove you to wanting to be rid of me once and for all." Steve spoke with such conviction that a part of Danny broke off and died. He'd said many of those things, usually when the other man had done something _completely_ against the book and any sane person's self preservation instincts, but he'd never have imagined Steve would take them to heart. Choking back the lump in his heart, he wrapped his arms around the taller man, burying his face in the crook of a tanned neck that smelled of the ocean and pineapples and _Steve_. "I realized I liked guys when I was fourteen. There was an older boy, Jared. He was a Junior, gorgeous, tall, and popular. Captain of the baseball team with a full ride scholarship to the college of his choice. We flirted off and on for about a week, then he told me I had gorgeous lips that would look even better wrapped around his cock, and convinced me to meet him out behind the bleachers during lunch. I'd never done anything like that before, but I was excited. He was older, popular, and he was interested in scrawny freshman me. So I met him. I was sucking him off best I could when the football team caught us. They dragged me out into the middle of the field. Called me a faggot and a cockslut, other names. I expected Jared to say something, stop them, but he didn't. He just tucked himself back into his pants and disappeared. Next time I saw him he was making out with the head cheerleader in the back stairwell. I decided I had to hide the fact that I liked guys too. Never dated one, never let myself start falling for one. Until I moved here and I found this suspicious looking man who'd broken into a crime scene for a _toolbox_." The chest pressed to his rumbled in a soft chuckle. "I love you, Steve McGarrett, have since that first day when you shoved your way into my life and made yourself at home…. And the idea of losing you, of something happening…. I couldn't handle it. I never, _never_ meant for it to go this far though." His breath hitched as he realized he'd almost lost this wonderful, complete goofball forever, and through his own actions, not something Steve's recklessness had led to. He'd almost ended his own life and Steve would never have known the truth. He'd have blamed himself, thinking Danny hated him so much that he'd rather be dead than put up with him any longer. His shoulders shook, broken sob tearing its way up his throat like talons until it forced its way from between his lips only to find itself blocked by the bunched tendons of muscle and sinew and warm skin he'd made his hiding place. Long fingers carded through his hair, rubbing comforting circles into his scalp as his body forced out all the stress and worries and fears he'd been keeping bottled for so long. "Shh, shh… it's okay, Danno. You're okay now, babe. I've got you… Not going anywhere, and neither are you." Steve kept up a steady stream of hushed reassurances while he continued running his fingers through tangled blond strands, letting Danny sob as long as he needed. After some time, the smaller man's tremors slowed until he was able to ease back, hiccuping only slightly as he caught his breath. Slightly embarrassed, he raised a hand to wipe at his face only to find another hand already there, warm and calloused fingers wiping at the tears and snot smeared across his cheeks before cupping them, keeping his face steady as Steve's came closer, closer, surprisingly soft lips landing a light kiss on the tip of his nose, his forehead, between his eyes, and lastly meeting his own bitten and chapped lips. Danny gasped at the contact, expecting Steve to take advantage at the parting but surprised when he didn't, keeping the kiss light and chaste. "I love you too, Danno," he whispered, barely breaking contact to do so. "Always have, since the day this smartass New Jersey cop busted into my garage demanding I put my hands in the air and tell him who I am and why I'm in a closed crime scene." Danny snorted, lips curling into the first real smile he'd had in a while. "Animal," he muttered, shifting up to press their lips together once more, only to have his goal draw away, pressing at his shoulders until he was flat on his back, the tanned ex-SEAL propped over him with a look in his eyes Danny couldn't identify, but that sent shivers of anticipation running through his body. "So beautiful," the brunet breathed, eyes roaming across Danny's exposed skin, making the blond flush under the scrutiny. "Gonna make you forget, Danno. Make you forget any desire to hurt this beautiful skin, because this gorgeous body is _mine_ , you understand?" He waited for Danny to nod before leaning down, placing a loving kiss against the shorter man's neck. It took him a moment to realize he was kissing the scar left over from that day so many years ago. It was low enough to hide under the collar of his dress shirts and he often forgot it was even there, claiming a shaving injury whenever someone noticed and commented. Moving his lips away, Steve put his hands on Danny's arms, stretching them out to either side, hissing his way down the inside of his upper arm where the faded remains of jagged scars were barely visible after twenty-two years. He laced their fingers together, meeting Danny's eyes as he pressed his lips over the pulsepoint of each wrist, over the dark pink bandages he must have pulled from the medicine cabinet instead of taking Danny to the hospital like a normal person would have done. Never breaking contact, he slid his lips over Danny's palm, placing a tiny feather kiss to each fingertip but taking a moment to give his thumbs a light nip before soothing it with his tongue. A groan escaped Danny's throat at the sight and he felt heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. This man was going to kill him if he kept it up. Reading his thoughts, Steve let the hands fall back to the mattress, a grin that made Danny's breath stutter with its promise on his face. Lowering himself back down, he bent down, giving the same attention he'd given to all the other marks to the ones crossing his toned stomach, so thin they could be mistaken for stretch marks, before sliding over to mouth at the ones from his meeting with the rose bushes. Completely bypassing the hardening organ and drawing another groan from Danny, Steve pushed the blond's knees into a bent position before pushing them apart, pressing kiss after kiss to the long thin ridges that ran from his knee to his groin and back again, dark hair brushing against the underside of Danny's member with each shift almost agonizingly. Fingers clenched in the bedsheets as Danny desperately tried to force the air in and out of his lungs, barely resisting the urge to grab fist fulls of those permanently windblown locks and pulling his head to where it should be. He knew this was something Steve needed to do, though, and he could maintain his control for a little longer. Steve looked up, green eyes meeting lust-blown blue as a smirk curled the corner of those dark, kissable lips. "So beautiful, Danno. You are so, _so_ beautiful, and I will spend the rest of my life convincing you of that. If you let me…" The smile stayed, but it was tinged with hesitation, like the immovable, rash lieutenant commander was actually nervous and unsure if he'd said the right thing. Unable to maintain his control, Danny's hands released the sheets, carding into that dark hair the way he'd imagined doing countless times and tugging until the man got the point and crawled his way back up to hover just below Danny's chin. "Steven McGarrett, I love you, and I want you to make love to me," Danny said, voice soft but sure, and it was as though the sun had broken out from behind the clouds. Steve's face broke out in a relieved grin as he surged forward, pressing his lips against Danny's in a bruising kiss, tongue flicking out to lick into the waiting mouth. Hands roamed over taut muscles as Danny let his hands roam across Steve's back, moaning as he felt those calloused fingers running down his own sides and over his stomach. Digging his palms into the small of his back, Danny wrapped his legs around Steve's waist, pressing him closer until he could feel the other man's thickness pressing into the crease of his thigh. He moaned at the sensation, canting his hips in an attempt to gain friction but practically crying out when his cocky partner shifted his hips just out of reach. "McGarrett I swear to God if you don't do something right now I will take matters into my own hands and leave you with the worst case of blue balls you've had since you were a horny teenager." Danny growled, tearing his mouth away from the kiss. Instead of responding, the brunet just lowered his head to Danny's neck, nipping and sucking at the juncture where his neck met shoulder until what the blond was sure would be a rather impressive bruise had started to form. He was just about to comment about how it better not be visible at work tomorrow when Steve suddenly ground his hips down against Danny's, pressing their members together and sending a bolt of pleasure through their bodies. His breath left him, a choked gasp leaving his throat as his eyes threatened to roll back in his head. "Do it again," he breathed, meeting those blown green eyes, locked by them as their owner repeated the action, dragging his hips up and down along Danny's, drawing wordless sounds of pleasure from the prone man as he found himself unable to do anything but lay there, soaking in the sensations that were coursing through his body as the man he'd secretly been in love with for years rubbed his thick, silken member against his own. He held tight to the muscular back above him, eyes falling closed as each shift, each thrust sent him spiraling closer and closer to the brink. His cock was leaking a mini pool onto his stomach, easing the thrusts of Steve's against his as those narrow, powerful hips sped up, pistoning up and down and drawing half-whimpers and moans from Danny's lips. He could feel the brunet's breath brushing past his ear, ragged with exertion and lust and just when Danny felt the start of that familiar pull way down past his stomach, a large, warm, calloused hand wrapped around their members and tugged, and Danny was gone, stars exploding across his vision before everything whited out. Through the buzzing in his head, he felt lips press against his ear with a whispered "Danny…" before Steve was coming too, spilling his load between their bodies with a grunt, hand still working them both through the aftershocks until Danny was sure he was going to be killed by overstimulation. Steve's weight was heavy on top of him as everything greyed out and Danny's eyes drifted shut, a contented smile on his face.

When he came around again, he was still on his back, but he was clean with a blanket pulled up to his sternum. A warm weight was draped along his side and over his torso, hand gripping his own as something tickled his jawline. It was dark outside. He breathed deep, taking in the smell of sex and pineapples and Steve, the motion shifting his bed-leech, who shifted but didn't pull away, instead nuzzling into his shoulder with a kiss against his warmed skin. "Mmm… morning sunshine," Steve mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. Danny couldn't help the fond smile that pulled at his lips as he turned his head enough to lay a kiss of his own on top of dark, sex-mussed hair. "Somehow I don't think it's morning, babe." Steve chuckled, shifting to better see his partner. "I'm not sure if I should feel insulted or flattered. I've never had someone fall asleep right after sex before, though I think I can excuse it in your case." A shadow fell over his features, drawing some of the bliss from his eyes. Danny wouldn't allow it. "Babe, don't. I'm here, I'm safe. You found me." He reached over, cupping a hand to rough cheek. "How did you find me, anyway?"

Steve leaned into the touch. "Kono. Docs checked me out at the hospital, said there was nothing some rest and proper sleep couldn't fix, so I checked myself out and called her to come take me back home. She took me here instead, saying she was worried about you, that you'd been acting off since we got back. Pounded on the door but when there was no answer I got a spare from your landlord and came in. Was running mad, calling your name but wasn't getting any answer. That's when I heard the shower running. I figured you were washing up, but when you didn't answer my calling you, I got worried and kicked the door in." Steve swallowed hard, and Danny felt that ball of guilt coming back. "You were just lying there in the shower, barely conscious, and there was just so-so much blood. Until you looked at me I thought I was too late, but then your eyes closed, all I could think was "no, not here. Not this way." And I just…" Steve's voice cracked and faded out, unable to continue. Danny felt bile rising in the back of his throat at what he'd put Steve through. The brunet had buried his face in Danny's chest, fighting to maintain his composure. To be honest, Danny was a little startled when he continued. "I shut off the water and used the towel to stem the blood flow until I could find something better. I found Gracie's wrap in the medicine cabinet and gauze pads under the sink, and after I had you bandaged up I got you dressed and brought you back here."

"But why here?" Danny asked. "You should probably have taken me to the hospital, or left me in my own bed. Why take the time to get me dressed, carry my ass out to your car and all the way back to your house, and up to your bed where you undressed me again and held me until I woke up." He watched Steve's face while he talked, and saw the slight blush darken his cheeks. "I… I couldn't remember if Gracie was supposed to be coming over. I didn't have time to clean up the bloody towel, and I didn't want her coming home to see her dad lying in bed unconscious with his wrists all bandaged. And I didn't want you to wake up alone." Danny smiled, tugging at the other man's chin until he was close enough to be kissed. "My hero," he said softly, kissing him again and feeling the returning smile against his lips. "I love you, Steven McGarrett."

"And I love you, Daniel Williams."

He was thirty-six, and he had his whole life ahead of him.

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The End


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